CHAPTER XVII

A CRISIS AT THE VICARAGE

"She said sometimes: 'Aurora, have you done Your task this morning? Have you read that book? And are you ready for the crochet here?' As if she said: 'I know there's something wrong; I know I have not ground you down enough To flatten and bake you to a wholesome crust For household uses and proprieties.'" --ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

The schoolroom was empty. Tommy and her brood were preparing to go to church. The vicar laid a little book upon the table and addressed a few sincere words to the girl. Narrow he was, prejudiced be might be; but a man who, however mistaken, is quite sincere, has always some power. Melicent felt that, had she been to blame, she might have repented at his bidding.

It was not expected that the party from the Grange would be at Fransdale Church that day. Mrs. Cooper was inly disconcerted when she saw that they were there. She found their inquiries after Melicent, when service was over, difficult to parry.

"A little _disagreement_?" she murmured, smiling, meaningly, and speaking as though taking Mrs. Helston into special confidence--always her manner when she was not telling the truth--"just a little question of discipline between dear Melicent and her uncle. We must hope for the best; but it needs much patience and kindness to eradicate the results of such training."

Mrs. Helston, though furious, realised that no indignation on her part would help Melicent's cause. She longed to ask questions, but knew she had no right to interfere in the matter at all. Mrs. Cooper, smiling and chattering, got away with adroitness on which she prided herself, with no questions asked as to whether Melicent would be allowed to go to the picnic next day.

Meanwhile Tommy and her pupils were in a terrible panic. They dared not guess what had been found out. Gwen, on considering the matter, could not believe it possible that it could be her last night's escapade, because, if her father had by some mysterious means seen anything, she felt sure that he would have taken the culprit in the act. By no means a student of character, she forgot that he never took action in the heat of the moment. They all crept home from church with shaken nerves, fully expecting that the storm would burst on their return. But nothing happened. Whatever Melicent's offence, she had certainly not incriminated them.

They were all so burdened by guilty consciences that, had it been their custom to be natural before their parents, anybody could have seen that something was wrong. However there was nothing unusual, at the Vicarage, in embarrassed, sulky silence, or monosyllabic answers: so all passed off without disturbance, and they were free to stare at one another in the seclusion of the schoolroom, from which the captive was now removed, and ask what could possibly be "up."

Mr. and Mrs. Cooper were meanwhile at a loss. It was certain that they could not keep their niece among their own children, but what other course was feasible? They could not afford to support her at school. She was too young to be turned out to get her own living, not to mention the probability of her disgracing herself and them, wherever they placed her.

Her aunt went in during the afternoon, and tried her blandishments, but was confronted with a steady, cold assertion that the girl had nothing to say.

That night, Melicent slept in another room, with a screwed-down window and a locked door; and in the solitude she broke down utterly, and wept pitifully for her dead father. She yearned for the presence of somebody she knew--somebody that believed in her; she even thought, with a gust of something like tenderness, of Bert Mestaer himself.

But in the morning, when her aunt brought her breakfast, she was self-contained and proud as ever. She heard the waggonette from the Grange drive up to the door, in dazzling sunshine. From her window she saw it pass out of the gate, after a twenty minute's delay caused by Mrs. Cooper's not being ready--saw Maddie, Gwen and Theo, in the new blouses she had made and hats which she had trimmed.

They had not been long gone before the key turned in the lock and Tommy crept in. She looked flurried and eager.

"Oh, my dear," she gasped, "at last I have a moment! Do tell me what has occurred!"

Melicent laid down her book and looked up, "Has Uncle Edmund not told you anything?"

"Not anything!"

"Then of course I can't."

"Really, Melicent, you are an impracticable girl! How can we help you if we don't know the scrape you're in?"

"You can't help me."

"Oh, very well!" huffily. "I came to let you out, and say that of course Babs and Bee and I should not tell, and you might just as well come and sit in the schoolroom with us."

"You are very kind, Miss Lathom, but I shall stay here. I don't cheat."

"I can guess what it is," observed Tommy, with an air of penetration. "Your uncle has found out that you got out of window!"

There was no reply.

"I thought so!" said Tommy triumphantly. "I was sure of it! That would be just the thing to make him angry. But I must say, I think they're punishing you too severely, considering you were shut up all yesterday. However, cheer up, my dear! These things blow over, you know."

"You're very kind," said Melicent wearily, "but I think you'd better go away. I feel sure they told you not to come and talk to me, didn't they?"

Tommy grew red.

"You're an ungrateful little cat," she said. "I come here trying to be kind to you, and I daresay you'll go and tell tales of me!"

"You ought to know by now that I don't tell tales," said Melicent; "but as I can hardly ever speak the truth here without telling tales, the only thing I can do is to hold my tongue."

Miss Lathom flounced out of the room in a rage.

Meanwhile, the Vicarage party met with a very cool reception when they arrived at Clairvaulx.

Lady Burmester clearly showed her displeasure.

"Surely you are too hard upon a girlish fault," she said stiffly. "If Melicent was in punishment all yesterday, you might have relented to-day, when you knew how anxious we all are to have her."

"If you knew the gravity of my niece's fault," said the vicar, in his most distant manner, "you would, I believe, think differently. She has proved herself altogether an unfit companion for innocent girls, and must, I fear, be sent to some institution where the moral sense may be developed by constant supervision."

"Good Lord!" said Sir Joseph.

The six elders were standing together, the girls having strayed off in company with Lancelot and Mr. Freshfield.

Mrs. Helston's cheeks were crimson.

"Will you think we ask too much if we beg to be told what she has done?" she inquired, in a voice that shook.

"Our claim to know is a strong one," put in her husband, "as, if Mr. Mayne consents, we should like to undertake the child's education, and give her a home. We hoped that, as you have plenty of daughters, and we have none, you would perhaps spare her to us, who have grown attached to her. But we ought to be in a position to know what tendencies in her to guard against."

"I presume," said the vicar, "that you would rather that we did not speak before Sir Joseph and Lady Burmester."

Her ladyship laid her hand on her husband's arm, and led him away across the grass.

"If I were a girl," she said, "the very sight of Mrs. Cooper would make me wicked. She makes my flesh creep. I wish somebody would take out her ear-rings."

"You are an ungenerous, ill-regulated woman," said Sir Joseph placidly. "I daresay they've had a sweet time of it, trying to break in Harry's precious African filly. He hints at her having had a past already. I expect she's a bit of a fire-brand in a peaceful parsonage."

The four others strolled in an opposite direction. The vicar, with real reluctance, and with brevity, described what he had seen Melicent do.

"I do not believe it!" cried Brenda Helston hotly.

"Brenda!" cried her husband, while Mrs. Cooper grew pink, and trembled visibly.

"It was one of the maids masquerading," went on Brenda, unheeding. "The very idea of Melicent doing such a thing is outrageous! One of the maids used her window to get out by! I daresay she sleeps soundly."

The vicar had had his moment in which to collect himself.

"Unfortunately," he said, "my niece does not deny it."